CHAPTER XX. THE DECISION OF HEAVEN
WE were half mad that night, Sapt and Bernenstein and I. The
thing seemed to have got into our blood and to have become
part of ourselves. For us it was inevitable--nay, it was done.
Sapt busied himself in preparing the account of the fire at the
hunting-lodge; it was to be communicated to the journals, and it
told with much circumstantiality how Rudolf Rassendyll had come
to visit the king, with James his servant, and, the king being
summoned unexpectedly to the capital, had been awaiting his
Majesty's return when he met his fate. There was a short history
of Rudolf, a glancing reference to his family, a dignified
expression of condolence with his relatives, to whom the king was
sending messages of deepest regret by the hands of Mr.
Rassendyll's servant. At another table young Bernenstein was
drawing up, under the constable's direction, a narrative of
Rupert of Hentzau's attempt on the king's life and the king's
courage in defending himself. The count, eager to return (so it
ran), had persuaded the king to meet him by declaring that he
held a state-document of great importance and of a most secret
nature; the king, with his habitual fearlessness, had gone alone,
but only to refuse with scorn Count Rupert's terms. Enraged at
this unfavorable reception, the audacious criminal had made a
sudden attack on the king, with what issue all knew. He had met
his own death, while the king, perceiving from a glance at the
document that it compromised well-known persons, had, with the
nobility which marked him, destroyed it unread before the eyes of
those who were rushing in to his rescue. I supplied suggestions
and improvements; and, engrossed in contriving how to blind
curious eyes, we forgot the real and permanent difficulties of
the thing we had resolved upon. For us they did not exist; Sapt
met every objection by declaring that the thing had been done
once and could be done again. Bernenstein and I were not behind
him in confidence.
We would guard the secret with brain and hand and life, even as
we had guarded and kept the secret of the queen's letter, which
would now go with Rupert of Hentzau to his grave. Bauer we could
catch and silence: nay, who would listen to such a tale from such
a man? Rischenheim was ours; the old woman would keep her doubts
between her teeth for her own sake. To his own land and his own
people Rudolf must be dead while the King of Ruritania would
stand before all Europe recognized, unquestioned, unassailed.
True, he must marry the queen again; Sapt was ready with the
means, and would hear nothing of the difficulty and risk in
finding a hand to perform the necessary ceremony. If we quailed
in our courage: we had but to look at the alternative, and find
recompense the perils of what we meant to undertake by a
consideration the desperate risk involved in abandoning it.
Persuaded the substitution of Rudolf for the king was the only
thing would serve our turn, we asked no longer whether it
possible, but sought only the means to make it safe and safe.
But Rudolf himself had not spoken. Sapt's appeal and the queen's
imploring cry had shaken but not overcome him; he had wavered,
but he was not won. Yet there was no talk of impossibility or
peril in his mouth, any more than in ours: those were not what
gave him pause. The score on which he hesitated was whether the
thing should be done, not whether it could; our appeals were not
to brace a failing courage, but cajole a sturdy sense of honor
which found the imposture distasteful so soon as it seemed to
serve a personal end. To serve the king he had played the king in
old days, but he did not love to play the king when the profit of
it was to be his own. Hence he was unmoved till his care for the
fair fame of the queen and the love of his friends joined to
buffet his resolution.
Then he faltered; but he had not fallen. Yet Colonel Sapt did all
as though he had given his assent, and watched the last hours in
which his flight from Strelsau was possible go quickly by with
more than equanimity. Why hurry Rudolf's resolve? Every moment
shut him closer in the trap of an inevitable choice. With every
hour that he was called the king, it became more impossible for
him to bear any other name all his days. Therefore Sapt let Mr.
Rassendyll doubt and struggle, while he himself wrote his story
and laid his long-headed plans. And now and then James, the
little servant, came in and went out, sedate and smug, but with a
quiet satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. He had made a story for
a pastime, and it was being translated into history. He at least
would bear his part in it unflinchingly.
Before now the queen had left us, persuaded to lie down and try
to rest till the matter should be settled. Stilled by Rudolf's
gentle rebuke, she had urged him no more in words, but there was
an entreaty in her eyes stronger than any spoken prayer, and a
piteousness in the lingering of her hand in his harder to resist
than ten thousand sad petitions. At last he had led her from the
room and commended her to Helga's care. Then, returning to us, he
stood silent a little while. We also were silent, Sapt sitting
and looking up at him with his brows knit and his teeth
restlessly chewing the moustache on his lip.
"Well, lad?" he said at last, briefly putting the great question.
Rudolf walked to the window and seemed to lose himself for a
moment in the contemplation of the quiet night. There were no
more than a few stragglers in the street now; the moon shone
white and clear on the empty square.
"I should like to walk up and down outside and think it over," he
said, turning to us; and, as Bernenstein sprang up to accompany
him, he added, "No. Alone."
"Yes, do," said old Sapt, with a glance at the clock, whose hands
were now hard on two o'clock. "Take your time, lad, take your
time."
Rudolf looked at him and broke into a smile.
"I'm not your dupe, old Sapt," said he, shaking his head. "Trust
me, if I decide to get away, I'll get away, be it what o'clock it
will."
"Yes, confound you!" grinned Colonel Sapt.
So he left us, and then came that long time of scheming and
planning, and most persistent eye-shutting, in which occupations
an hour wore its life away. Rudolf had not passed out of the
porch, and we supposed that he had betaken himself to the
gardens, there to fight his battle. Old Sapt, having done his
work, suddenly turned talkative.
"That moon there," he said, pointing his square, thick forefinger
at the window, "is a mighty untrustworthy lady. I've known her
wake a villain's conscience before now."
"I've known her send a lover's to sleep," laughed young
Bernenstein, rising from his table, stretching himself, and
lighting a cigar.
"Ay, she's apt to take a man out of what he is," pursued old
Sapt. "Set a quiet man near her, and he dreams of battle; an
ambitious fellow, after ten minutes of her, will ask nothing
better than to muse all his life away. I don't trust her, Fritz;
I wish the night were dark."
"What will she do to Rudolf Rassendyll?" I asked, falling in with
the old fellow's whimsical mood.
"He will see the queen's face in hers," cried Bernenstein.
"He may see God's," said Sapt; and he shook himself as though an
unwelcome thought had found its way to his mind and lips.
A pause fell on us, born of the colonel's last remark. We looked
one another in the face. At last Sapt brought his hand down on
the table with a bang.
"I'll not go back," he said sullenly, almost fiercely.
"Nor I," said Bernenstein, drawing himself up. "Nor you,
Tarlenheim?"
"No, I also go on," I answered. Then again there was a moment's
silence.
"She may make a man soft as a sponge," reflected Sapt, starting
again, "or hard as a bar of steel. I should feel safer if the
night were dark. I've looked at her often from my tent and from
bare ground, and I know her. She got me a decoration, and once
she came near to making me turn tail. Have nothing to do with
her, young Bernenstein."
"I'll keep my eyes for beauties nearer at hand," said
Bernenstein, whose volatile temper soon threw off a serious mood.
"There's a chance for you, now Rupert of Hentzau's gone," said
Sapt grimly.
As he spoke there was a knock at the door. When it opened James
entered.
"The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim begs to be allowed to speak with
the king," said James.
"We expect his Majesty every moment. Beg the count to enter,"
Sapt answered; and, when Rischenheim came in, he went on,
motioning the count to a chair: "We are talking, my lord, of the
influence of the moon on the careers of men."
"What are you going to do? What have you decided?" burst out
Rischenheim impatiently.
"We decide nothing," answered Sapt.
"Then what has Mr.--what has the king decided?"
"The king decides nothing, my lord. She decides," and the old
fellow pointed again through the window towards the moon. "At
this moment she makes or unmakes a king; but I can't tell you
which. What of your cousin?"
"You know that my cousin's dead."
"Yes, I know that. What of him, though?"
"Sir," said Rischenheim with some dignity, "since he is dead, let
him rest in peace. It is not for us to judge him."
"He may well wish it were. For, by Heaven, I believe I should let
the rogue off," said Colonel Sapt, "and I don't think his Judge
will."
"God forgive him, I loved him," said Rischenheim. "Yes, and many
have loved him. His servants loved him, sir."
"Friend Bauer, for example?"
"Yes, Bauer loved him. Where is Bauer?"
"I hope he's gone to hell with his loved master," grunted Sapt,
but he had the grace to lower his voice and shield his mouth with
his hand, so that Rischenheim did not hear.
"We don't know where he is," I answered.
"I am come," said Rischenheim, "to put my services in all
respects at the queen's disposal."
"And at the king's?" asked Sapt.
"At the king's? But the king is dead."
"Therefore 'Long live the king!'" struck in young Bernenstein.
"If there should be a king--" began Sapt.
"You'll do that?" interrupted Rischenheim in breathless
agitation.
"She is deciding," said Colonel Sapt, and again he pointed to the
moon.
"But she's a plaguey long time about it," remarked Lieutenant von
Bernenstein.
Rischenheim sat silent for a moment. His face was pale, and when
he spoke his voice trembled. But his words were resolute enough.
"I gave my honor to the queen, and even in that I will serve her
if she commands me."
Bernenstein sprang forward and caught him by the hand. "That's
what I like," said he, "and damn the moon, colonel!" His sentence
was hardly out of his mouth when the door opened, and to our
astonishment the queen entered. Helga was just behind her; her
clasped hands and frightened eyes seemed to protest that their
coming was against her will. The queen was clad in a long white
robe, and her hair hung on her shoulders, being but loosely bound
with a ribbon. Her air showed great agitation, and without any
greeting or notice of the rest she walked quickly across the room
to me.
"The dream, Fritz," she said. "It has come again. Helga persuaded
me to lie down, and I was very tired, so at last I fell asleep.
Then it came. I saw him, Fritz--I saw him as plainly as I see
you. They all called him king, as they did to-day; but they did
not cheer. They were quiet, and looked at him with sad faces. I
could not hear what they said; they spoke in hushed voices. I
heard nothing more than 'the king, the king,' and he seemed to
hear not even that. He lay still; he was lying on something,
something covered with hanging stuff, I couldn't see what it was;
yes, quite still. His face was so pale, and he didn't hear them
say 'the king.' Fritz, Fritz, he looked as if he were dead! Where
is he? Where have you let him go?"
She turned from me and her eyes flashed over the rest. "Where is
he? Why aren't you with him?" she demanded, with a sudden change
of tone; "why aren't you round him? You should be between him and
danger, ready to give your lives for his. Indeed, gentlemen, you
take your duty lightly."
It might be that there was little reason in her words. There
appeared to be no danger threatening him, and after all he was
not our king, much as we desired to make him such. Yet we did not
think of any such matter. We were abashed before her reproof and
took her indignation as deserved. We hung our heads, and Sapt's
shame betrayed itself in the dogged sullenness of his answer.
"He has chosen to go walking, madam, and to go alone. He ordered
us--I say, he ordered us not to come. Surely we are right to obey
him?" The sarcastic inflection of his voice conveyed his opinion
of the queen's extravagance.
"Obey him? Yes. You couldn't go with him if he forbade you. But
you should follow him; you should keep him in sight."
This much she spoke in proud tones and with a disdainful manner,
but then came a sudden return to her former bearing. She held out
her hands towards me, wailing:
"Fritz, where is he? Is he safe? Find him for me, Fritz; find
him."
"I'll find him for you if he's above ground, madam," I cried, for
her appeal touched me to the heart.
"He's no farther off than the gardens," grumbled old Sapt, still
resentful of the queen's reproof and scornful of the woman's
agitation. He was also out of temper with Rudolf himself, because
the moon took so long in deciding whether she would make or
unmake a king.
"The gardens!" she cried. "Then let us look for him. Oh, you've
let him walk in the gardens alone?"
"What should harm the fellow?" muttered Sapt.
She did not hear him, for she had swept out of the room. Helga
went with her, and we all followed, Sapt behind the rest of us,
still very surly. I heard him grumbling away as we ran
downstairs, and, having passed along the great corridor, came to
the small saloon that opened on the gardens. There were no
servants about, but we encountered a night-watchman, and
Bernenstein snatched the lantern from the astonished man's hand.
Save for the dim light thus furnished, the room was dark. But
outside the windows the moon streamed brightly down on the broad
gravel walk, on the formal flower-beds, and the great trees in
the gardens. The queen made straight for the window. I followed
her, and, having flung the window open, stood by her. The air was
sweet, and the breeze struck with grateful coolness on my face. I
saw that Sapt had come near and stood on the other side of the
queen. My wife and the others were behind, looking out where our
shoulders left space.
There, in the bright moonlight, on the far side of the broad
terrace, close by the line of tall trees that fringed its edge,
we saw Rudolf Rassendyll pacing slowly up and down, with his
hands behind his back and his eyes fixed on the arbiter of his
fate, on her who was to make him a king or send him a fugitive
from Strelsau.
"There he is, madam," said Sapt. "Safe enough!"
The queen did not answer. Sapt said no more, and of the rest of
us none spoke. We stood watching him as he struggled with his
great issue; a greater surely has seldom fallen to the lot of any
man born in a private station. Yet I could read little of it on
the face that the rays of white light displayed so clearly,
although they turned his healthy tints to a dull gray, and gave
unnatural sharpness to his features against the deep background
of black foliage.
I heard the queen's quick breathing, but there was scarcely
another sound. I saw her clutch her gown and pull it away a
little from her throat; save for that none in the group moved.
The lantern's light was too dim to force notice from Mr.
Rassendyll. Unconscious of our presence, he wrestled with fate
that night in the gardens.
Suddenly the faintest exclamation came from Sapt. He put his hand
back and beckoned to Bernenstein. The young man handed his
lantern to the constable, who set it close to the side of the
window-frame. The queen, absolutely engrossed in her lover, saw
nothing, but I perceived what had caught Sapt's attention. There
were scores on the paint and indentations in the wood, just at
the edge of the panel and near the lock. I glanced at Sapt, who
nodded his head. It looked very much as though somebody had tried
to force the door that night, employing a knife which had dented
the woodwork and scratched the paint. The least thing was enough
to alarm us, standing where we stood, and the constable's face
was full of suspicion. Who had sought an entrance? It could be no
trained and practised housebreaker; he would have had better
tools.
But now our attention was again diverted. Rudolf stopped short.
He still looked for a moment at the sky, then his glance dropped
to the ground at his feet. A second later he jerked his head--it
was bare, and I saw the dark red hair stir with the
movement--like a man who has settled something which caused him a
puzzle. In an instant we knew, by the quick intuition of
contagious emotion, that the question had found its answer. He
was by now king or a fugitive. The Lady of the Skies had given
her decision. The thrill ran through us; I felt the queen draw
herself together at my side; I felt the muscles of Rischenheim's
arm which rested against my shoulder grow rigid and taut. Sapt's
face was full of eagerness, and he gnawed his moustache silently.
We gathered closer to one another. At last we could bear the
suspense no longer. With one look at the queen and another at me,
Sapt stepped on to the gravel. He would go and learn the answer;
thus the unendurable strain that had stretched us like tortured
men on a rack would be relieved. The queen did not answer his
glance, nor even seem to see that he had moved. Her eyes were
still all for Mr. Rassendyll, her thoughts buried in his; for her
happiness was in his hands and lay poised on the issue of that
decision whose momentousness held him for a moment motionless on
the path. Often I seem to see him as he stood there, tall,
straight, and stately, the king a man's fancy paints when he
reads of great monarchs who flourished long ago in the springtime
of the world.
Sapt's step crunched on the gravel. Rudolf heard it and turned
his head. He saw Sapt, and he saw me also behind Sapt. He smiled
composedly and brightly, but he did not move from where he was.
He held out both hands towards the constable and caught him in
their double grasp, still smiling down in his face. I was no
nearer to reading his decision, though I saw that he had reached
a resolution that was immovable and gave peace to his soul. If he
meant to go on he would go on now, on to the end, without a
backward look or a falter of his foot; if he had chosen the other
way, he would depart without a murmur or a hesitation. The
queen's quick breathing had ceased, she seemed like a statue; but
Rischenheim moved impatiently, as though he could no longer
endure the waiting.
Sapt's voice came harsh and grating.
"Well?" he cried. "Which is it to be--backward or forward?"
Rudolf pressed his hands and looked into his eyes. The answer
asked but a word from him. The queen caught my arm; her rigid
limbs seemed to give way, and she would have fallen if I had not
supported her. At the same instant a man sprang out of the dark
line of tall trees, directly behind Mr. Rassendyll. Bernenstein
uttered a loud startled cry and rushed forward, pushing the queen
herself violently out of his path. His hand flew to his side, and
he ripped the heavy cavalry sword that belonged to his uniform of
the Cuirassiers of the Guard from its sheath. I saw it flash in
the moonlight, but its flash was quenched in a brighter short
blaze. A shot rang out through the quiet gardens. Mr. Rassendyll
did not loose his hold of Sapt's hands, but he sank slowly on to
his knees. Sapt seemed paralyzed.
Again Bernenstein cried out. It was a name this time. "Bauer! By
God, Bauer!" he cried.
In an instant he was across the path and by the trees. The
assassin fired again, but now he missed. We saw the great sword
flash high above Bernenstein's head and heard it whistle through
the air. It crashed on the crown of Bauer's head, and he fell
like a log to the ground with his skull split. The queen's hold
on me relaxed; she sank into Rischenheim's arms. I ran forward
and knelt by Mr. Rassendyll. He still held Sapt's hands, and by
their help buoyed himself up. But when he saw me he let go of
them and sank back against me, his head resting on my chest. He
moved his lips, but seemed unable to speak. He was shot through
the back. Bauer had avenged the master whom he loved, and was
gone to meet him.
There was a sudden stir from inside the palace. Shutters were
flung back and windows thrown open. The group we made stood
clean-cut, plainly visible in the moonlight. A moment later there
was a rush of eager feet, and we were surrounded by officers and
servants. Bernenstein stood by me now, leaning on his sword; Sapt
had not uttered a word; his face was distorted with horror and
bitterness. Rudolf's eyes were closed and his head lay back
against me.
"A man has shot the king," said I, in bald, stupid explanation.
All at once I found James, Mr. Rassendyll's servant, by me.
"I have sent for doctors, my lord," he said. "Come, let us carry
him in."
He, Sapt and I lifted Rudolf and bore him across the gravel
terrace and into the little saloon. We passed the queen. She was
leaning on Rischenheim's arm, and held my wife's hand. We laid
Rudolf down on a couch. Outside I heard Bernenstein say, "Pick up
that fellow and carry him somewhere out of sight." Then he also
came in, followed by a crowd. He sent them all to the door, and
we were left alone, waiting for the surgeon. The queen came up,
Rischenheim still supporting her. "Rudolf! Rudolf!" she
whispered, very softly.
He opened his eyes, and his lips bent in a smile. She flung
herself on her knees and kissed his hand passionately. "The
surgeon will be here directly," said I.
Rudolf's eyes had been on the queen. As I spoke he looked up at
me, smiled again, and shook his head. I turned away.
When the surgeon came Sapt and I assisted him in his examination.
The queen had been led away, and we were alone. The examination
was very short. Then we carried Rudolf to a bed; the nearest
chanced to be in Bernenstein's room; there we laid him, and there
all that could be done for him was done. All this time we had
asked no questions of the surgeon, and he had given no
information. We knew too well to ask: we had all seen men die
before now, and the look on the face was familiar to us. Two or
three more doctors, the most eminent in Strelsau, came now,
having been hastily summoned. It was their right to be called;
but, for all the good they were, they might have been left to
sleep the night out in their beds. They drew together in a little
group at the end of the room and talked for a few minutes in low
tones. James lifted his master's head and gave him a drink of
water. Rudolf swallowed it with difficulty. Then I saw him feebly
press James's hand, for the little man's face was full of sorrow.
As his master smiled the servant mustered a smile in answer. I
crossed over to the doctors. "Well, gentlemen?" I asked.
They looked at one another, then the greatest of them said
gravely:
"The king may live an hour, Count Fritz. Should you not send for
a priest?"
I went straight back to Rudolf Rassendyll. His eyes greeted me
and questioned me. He was a man, and I played no silly tricks
with him. I bent down and said: "An hour, they think, Rudolf."
He made one restless movement, whether of pain or protest I do
not know. Then he spoke, very low, slowly, and with difficulty.
"Then they can go," he said; and when I spoke of a priest he
shook his head.
I went back to them and asked if anything more could be done. The
answer was nothing; but I could not prevail further than to get
all save one sent into an adjoining room; he who remained seated
himself at a table some way off. Rudolf's eyes had closed again;
old Sapt, who had not once spoken since the shot was fired,
raised a haggard face to mine.
"We'd better fetch her to him," he said hoarsely. I nodded my
head.
Sapt went while I stayed by him. Bernenstein came to him, bent
down, and kissed his hand. The young fellow, who had borne
himself with such reckless courage and dash throughout the
affair, was quite unmanned now, and the tears were rolling down
his face. I could have been much in the same plight, but I would
not before Mr. Rassendyll. He smiled at Bernenstein. Then he said
to me:
"Is she coming, Fritz?"
"Yes, she's coming, sire," I answered.
He noticed the style of my address; a faint amused gleam shot
into his languid eyes.
"Well, for an hour, then," he murmured, and lay back on his
pillows.
She came, dry-eyed, calm, and queenly. We all drew back, and she
knelt down by his bed, holding his hand in her two hands.
Presently the hand stirred; she let it go; then, knowing well
what he wanted, she raised it herself and placed it on her head,
while she bowed her face to the bed. His hand wandered for the
last time over the gleaming hair that he had loved so well. She
rose, passed her arm about his shoulders, and kissed his lips.
Her face rested close to his, and he seemed to speak to her, but
we could not have heard the words even if we would. So they
remained for a long while.
The doctor came and felt his pulse, retreating afterwards with
close-shut lips. We drew a little nearer, for we knew that he
would not be long with us now. Suddenly strength seemed to come
upon him. He raised himself in his bed, and spoke in distinct
tones.
"God has decided," he said. "I've tried to do the right thing
through it all. Sapt, and Bernenstein, and you, old Fritz, shake
my hand. No, don't kiss it. We've done with pretence now."
We shook his hand as he bade us. Then he took the queen's hand.
Again she knew his mind, and moved it to his lips. "In life and
in death, my sweet queen," he murmured. And thus he fell asleep.
